Bora born
Smoko _
Spanish lady clothed in her second skin of
stove pipe jeans dusted true-blue from within.
Trick or treat tank top traps curves above thighs, legs
reach for her arm pits with resilient long sighs.
The Chef at Perrotos steps up on his throne
to babel old rules for a smoker's new zone.
Not lost in translation she dances away
now safe out of range where the night breeze holds sway.
Her strongest desire then is not to be seen
her raw beauty on show sings where have you been.
Slender elbows in hands shift left then right, to
the tune of a melody hidden from sight.
Her lithe body reshapes like breeze driven wind
to an alphabet soup of nuanced bling!
promoting letters where vowels seem to hold sway
until she stubs out with a so, slow small ‘k'.
- O -
© aug 2009 _ Nhawrr yirrpa
Comment On This Poem ---
Smoko _
Smoko _